When The Land Lady Died
by ConsultingWriter
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson passed away, nothing is ever the same. But's not to say it was a bad thing... Rated T for amani reasons. Johnlock and some Mystrade... Angsty and adorable. Enjoy and please, please review! :)


It was a cold day. John and Sherlock had been busy planning for the big event. They were all ready for Mrs. Hudson's funeral, which wasn't really a funeral because they were just going to her grave. They said their goodbyes, shed their tears and walked along the path back to a cab. They then went out for dinner-there was nothing in-and didn't really say much.

"I... So, did you figure out that-" "Murder. It's obvious; I'll let Lastrade figure it out." John looked at Sherlock. "Alright, I'll tell him." Sherlock then proceeded to take out his phone and text L. the details and everything.  
They paid the bill, and they both sat there. "I think we could go now..." John said after a couple minutes. "Sherlock, are you okay?" "Why? Why should we go?" "Because that's what we do. We leave when we're done being somewhere." This statement was true. When you're done being somewhere (Alive on this Earth) you leave (die) because there is nothing left for you to do.  
Sherlock sat there; staring at john's shoes-he was slouched enough in the booth to see the toes. "Your shoes are shiny, John." Sherlock mumbled just loud enough for John to hear. "Yeah, okay. Can we go now?" John had moved his shoes, so Sherlock couldn't see them anymore.

"Yes." John got up, but Sherlock didn't move. He just sat there. He was now staring at his own shoes. John sat down next to Sherlock. "Sherlock, I know how you feel-" "No, John. You DON'T KNOW!" This was not true.

John knew even worse pain than Sherlock. John stood. He looked at Sherlock, tears on his face, and exited the tiny restaurant.  
Sherlock sat up and watched John leave. "Not good?" Sherlock Said, but there was no one there to tell him. So Sherlock sat, and thought of any possible way to apologize-but there wasn't anything to say.

John's suffering was of Sherlock's fault, and Sherlock now understood. Though something he didn't fully understand was why John was crying. "What can a man possibly do to make another-a stronger man none the less-cry?" Sherlock thought. With that, he got up, and went back to Baker Street.

John was on his laptop-not unusual. Sherlock walked in cautiously, not sure what to say or do. John looked normal, as he did earlier that day. Sherlock walked over to John and put his hands on his shoulders. John didn't flinch. "I am sorry. I didn't realize." Sherlock said. John didn't respond, he just sat there, typing for his blog, explaining that Mrs. Hudson had died.

John finished, sent the post, and closed his laptop. "Sherlock, I know that you are sad, and angry-so am I-but that doesn't give you any right to be a bigger asshole than you already are." John hadn't moved to look at Sherlock, he just said it facing the wall. Sherlock couldn't really say anything about John's remark, so he just let go of his shoulders and walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat at the table and tried to do some form of science. He kept looking over at John, who hadn't seemed to even blink. "John, are you okay?" nothing in response. "John, I already said sorry, what else could you possibly want?" Sherlock thought of something clever. He felt like it was so clever, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He'd never done it before. Most of the time, he just kisses him on the cheek, but he had other means.

Sherlock stood up, and hesitantly started to sort-of walk to John. I describe it as "sort-of" because he wasn't really walking, well not willingly. It was more of a force inside of him that wanted him to start walking-it looked strange, like he had problems. John noticed his sort-of walk and turned his attention and his eyes to Sherlock. He didn't move, he just watched Sherlock crawl to him with some sort of strange sentiment. Basically, Sherlock had a weird expression of like confusion and excitement, which looked kind of ugly. John would disagree with the ugly part.

Anyways, so Sherlock eventually got to John. He relaxed and didn't look so weird. He put his head next to John's as if he was looking over his shoulder. "I, John, I hope you're listening," John closed his eyes, and opened them again. Sherlock paused for a moment to gather himself. "Dr. John Hamish Watson, if you don't mind, I have thought a lot over our years spent together and I have come to a conclusion-one that cannot be disproved. I love you." Sherlock turned his head, and John's pupils dilated and he felt the warmth of Sherlock's lips on his cheek. John didn't say anything for a while, not in anger, but in shock, and lust, and just the overall paralyzing feeling of love at last, after waiting so long.

Sherlock regretted not kissing him for real this time. He really wanted to.

Sherlock's head just lingered there for a while, and it was very awkward-I bet you were expecting a nicer adjective, nope. John made it less awkward, by turning his head to look at Sherlock. (Keep in mind, I am making this seem like this happened very slowly-it adds length to the story-when actually, it happened very quickly, and suddenly.) John filled with joy and lust and he just felt so happy-and let's face it: horny-that he just slid his hand on Sherlock's neck, who flinched because John's hands are cold, and then they leaned in.

Just before anything could happen, there was a short, single ring of the doorbell. "client." they said simultaneously. They smiled at each other because it wasn't planned. Sherlock walked down the stairs, let him in and they carried on with their duties. This person looked about twenty, maybe twenty five, he was thirty four years old, they later found out. Anyway, so apparently his wife goes away at exactly 3:47 in the afternoon-like, just disappears, and then doesn't come back until late. And whenever he asks about it, she says she's "out with the girls."

"Why have you come here, then? That's not a very hard thing to figure out." Sherlock said angrily. "When she comes home, she isn't the same." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and walked over to John-who was sitting on the couch. Sherlock put his head in John's lap and signaled for the weird man to continue-John looked down at Sherlock like "What the hell? We have a client, be decent." But we all know Sherlock's opinion on decency-he didn't though. "Well, go on then. What's different about her?" Sherlock was getting annoyed with him, and John was getting annoyed with Sherlock, and the guy, well, he just sat there, thinking.

"What do we do?" Sherlock whispered to John. John grew a smile. "I'll get rid of him." John whispered back. "Hey, I figured it out. She's cheating on you. Sorry for your issues. Goodbye now." John wasn't proud to lie. The guy started to cry, and then proceeded to leave, which is a result.

When Sherlock heard the door close, he smiled. 'What?" John asked. "Sorry for your issues?" Sherlock giggled-a childish giggle that John found cute. John just stared down at Sherlock, smiling, and Sherlock sat up. He scooted very close to John. "I feel bad for him." Sherlock said sarcastically. John laughed a bit. "Yeah. Poor guy."

"John. About what I said earlier-I meant it. And what you said-I deserve it. I'm truly sorry for what I did, but you understand why I did it." John wasn't smiling anymore. He was thinking about how he felt when Sherlock was "dead." I would tell you everything he felt, but I'm pretty sure you felt everything as well. John sat up a bit more, and laced his fingers that then rested on his knees.

"John?" "I'm fine, Sherlock. I just don't like thinking about what happened to you. It's not my favourite past-time." "Understood. I just want you to know that, I'm here now. And I will never do that again. And if I have to, then I will tell you." John didn't say anything. He unlaced his fingers and leaned back.

Sherlock moved in a position so that one leg was folded onto the couch and the other leg was dangling, and he was kind of facing John. John turned towards Sherlock and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I have had three lonely years to, you know…" "I do not." Sherlock mumbled. "to think about, stuff. And I have come to a conclusion as well." "And what is that conclusion?" Sherlock asked.

He was expecting an "I forgive you." or an "I love you." or both, but what he got instead mattered a bit more than words did at that moment, because John's conclusion speaks for itself. A kiss, a very long, and wonderful kiss that they'd been wanting to happen for a while. It wasn't a two second smooch. It was a I-am-sucking-face-with-Sherlock-fugging-Holmes-holy-mother-of-potatoes-wow kiss, which both of them enjoyed very much.

It seemed to be missing an end until there was a knock at the door. Not the front door, the door to their flat, which had luckily been closed by our strange friend with the different wife. They stopped, stared at each other. They hadn't noticed what position they were in by then-how much they'd moved around on that little couch.

Sherlock was on top of John and their legs intertwined. Sherlock's hands were on John's hips. John's hands were farther up than the hip, but still in that general area. Their torsos were very, very close-touching. Not one part of them wasn't touching it's equal- that was until the knock at the door, but neither could feel anything because they were num with the feeling of the IASFWSFHHMOPW kiss.

John laughed and they still were oblivious of the extremely sexual visual they were about to release to a poor old Lestrade who just wanted to check on John and Sherlock. It was both hilarious and extremely awkward at the same time, and neither emotion felt appropriate for their situation. Sherlock smiled and thought John was laughing at him until he kissed him again. Lastrade was getting impatient so he opened the door to find them ya know, sucking face right before his lucky eyes.

"OH GOD." Lastrade thought. He left the room and closed the door. He slid down the back and put his pitiful head between his knees-it's pitiful because he didn't stay to watch the most beautiful thing happen like any normal person. "YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME!" Lastrade yelled from the door. They stopped kissing, and they looked at each other with the most concerned expressions, and then burst into laughter. Lastrade thought they were high, or at least on some sort of drug.

"Oh my god, Sherlock, what have we done?" "I don't know. Probably something not good." Sherlock half smiled and John turned his head to face the door. They could now feel again. The overpowering sensation of lust and dissipation now gone. Their positioning on that tiny couch now seemed uncomfortable, and their previous actions and thoughts unimportant.

"What do we do now?" Sherlock half smiled again, but with the other side of his mouth. Sherlock untangled himself from John, walked to the door, opened it, and found Lastrade gone. He was not too surprised. John went to look out the window, and Lastrade was talking to Sergeant Donovan and Anderson who were all laughing. "They've gone." John lied.

"I'll give him a call, see what he needed." said Sherlock. He walked over to his coat and pulled out his phone. "Maybe you should wait, he's probably not going to want to hear our voices." "Okay. What shall we do now?" Sherlock walked over to John and stood in front of him. Either were unsure of what to do. Sherlock grabbed John's hands. "You were going to say something." Sherlock remarked, out of the blue. "Yes, I was. Um, I think I already said it though." John said, referring to their IASFWSFHHMOPW kiss. "But, in words, John. In words, what would you have said." Sherlock said, acting like he had any clue.

"You really don't know do you?" "Of course I do-" Sherlock stopped and stared at John, he was trying to think. "I don't, please tell me." He used his most childish voice this time. John stood , grabbing his hands back, and stood on his tip-toes to reach his chin with his nose, and the he pulled away and said to his ear, but far enough away so it would look like they were about to IASFWSFHHMOPW. Donavon barged in when John said "I love you, Sherlock Holm-" Again they all felt inappropriate awkwardness and hilarity towards their situation.

"Sorry. Bad time?" said Donovan with the biggest smile on her face.. "I thought you said they left." Sherlock said, looking at John, eyebrows furrowed, and eyes gleaming. "I couldn't see them, so I thought they left." John lied. "Oh. Sergeant Donovan, what a surprise!" Sherlock walked over to her and held out his hand as for a hand shake. "Well, we've been worried about you two. The fighting, Mrs. Hudson said." John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock at John. "Mrs. Hudson, she, um. She passed away not too long ago." "Oh, I'm so sorry."

All was silent for a while. "Well, I hope you're doing all right. Let us know if you need anything." "Great! Lovely. Good-day!" John said, politely. "I'll just let you two carry on, then." She never stopped smiling. She found it sweet and she wasn't very surprised either. She may have been on their side after all. They closed the door behind her and then they just sort of stood there. "Strange day." Sherlock mumbled. "Yeah, very." John agreed. They went to bed-it was around that time-and they didn't really sleep.

They were too busy thinking about their "I love you" remarks and their intense IASFWSFHHMOPW kisses. At least they got to sleep with a good thought.

* * *

John woke up before Sherlock-like always. He showered, made coffee, read the papers, but there was one thing he did that he normally doesn't-he went to Sherlock.

He walked quietly to his door. It was open a bit, just enough to see the light from the window shining on the wooden floor boards. He opened the door a bit more, careful not to let too much more light in. He closed it behind him, very slowly-almost to the extent where that speed was unnecessary.  
"Sherlock," John whispered-to see if he was awake. "Sherlock," He whispered louder-as you do. He walked over to Sherlock. He was breathing heavily, and sweating. John put his hand on his forehead. He was cold, his whole face was cold! "Sherlock." John said aloud. He was trying to wake him up. "John…" Sherlock said, he said it like it faded away at the end.

"Sherlock." John yelled that one, and Sherlock opened his eyes. He was shaking and weak. "Are you okay?" John asked, sitting next to him on the bed. "I feel, I feel like I can't." "Okay, lets get you to the hospital, you'll be fine." John said, unsure if that was necessary. John grabbed Sherlock's pajamas and told him to put them on.

"I can't." Sherlock muttered. "Well you have to because I sure as hell won't." John said that, and thought it over. "I mean. I would if it was entirely necessary." "It is. John just hurry, please." "Okay, well you can move so you put your pants on."

"Fine." John turned around and Sherlock struggled to, but eventually did so. "Okay." Sherlock said. "Now your trousers." Sherlock looked at John but John was not able to see it. He did so. Then John turned around. "Okay, I'll help with your shirt." John said, and then he did so. "Ow!" Sherlock screeched, his voice cracking. "Sorry, I've never done this before." "Obviously." Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

As they continued to get ready and put on their coats-and Sherlock's scarf-and headed out to a cab who then drove them straight away, that whole time, they never let go of each other's hands. Like they were frozen together. John felt sad about it because Sherlock couldn't feel the warmth of John hand in his. Sherlock actually didn't even realize they were holding hands until he looked at it.

"You'll be fine. I promise." John said as they were approaching the hospital. Something important that John was not informed of was the fact that Sherlock's side hurt, and he was very ill. So that whole time, John was worried about some mystery disease, when actually, Sherlock just needed his appendix taken out.

After an hour of waiting for Sherlock to come out of surgery-I'm skipping everything in between because it's not essential to the story-John was told that Sherlock was fine, and that this hospital has never done a surgery on someone that old before. The kid who told him this was about twenty, and he was very thin and looked very fragile, but John didn't care, he punched him in the face because he called Sherlock old. Yeah. And he told the kid "If you tell anyone that I did that, I will not be happy with you." and the kid just looked at him and said "Sorry, sir." and walked away with a bruised eye.

* * *

It was weeks later, and Sherlock had gained back his health and they were out solving crimes and being silly and in love and it was all fine and dandy. John was bloging and Sherlock not getting the milk. John was sleeping and Sherlock waking him up at one in the morning to tell him he can't sleep because he keeps thinking about John, and all of the silly and dirty things he wants to do with/to him.

It was very lovely.

One day, Sherlock had just finished the paperwork for a case he had to finish filing-he lost a bet, so he had to file about seven hundred cases. He correctly solved about half of them, so they found out they arrested twelve wrong people. It was sad. John had been lenient of his bloging post-Riechenbach, but he started to pick up on it the more they solved cases and other things.

They hadn't done anything too much like IASFWSFHHMOPW since Sherlock's illness. And it didn't, for a while, seem like they even wanted to. Like they'd forgotten their feelings and emotions entirely, and just, like, slept. Sherlock was a newish person-he had a heart. He'd always had a heart, just, it was hidden. And it took John to uncover it. But it was only noticeable around John.

Like, John was the key to Sherlock's heart, and the only one. It was also very awkward, not just sweet because Sherlock was not aware that PDA like IASFWSFHHMOPW is VERY. NOT. GOOD. But Sherlock seemed to not care, and it took John's resistance to keep from getting in trouble. It was a very good thing they had each other.

John keeps Sherlock human, and Sherlock keeps John not lonely. They could never be apart, it wouldn't and won't happen. They are two parts of the perfect whole. Separated, they are the mistakes and wrongs of being a human. They are the lonely and friendless, cold and hardhearted, ignorant and brilliant part of existence. But together, they are unbeatable. They are **_luminous_**.

Back at 221B Baker Street, they sat and watched tele, drinking hot chocolate-it's winter now. Christmas is in two days and they have finished shopping and are getting ready for their Christmas party the next day. They name off everything and John says check if they've done/have it. "And, that's it! We are all ready!" John said, a big smile on his face. "Good." Sherlock took at sip of his hot chocolate.

"You make good hot chocolate, John." "Thanks." "Better, than your tea, well anything for that matter." John looked at Sherlock and just sort of smiled. He was hearing subtext again. "well, okay! I think I'll go and um." John paused. He paused for a whole episode of Maury. "There's nothing to do." he finally blurted out. "Blog." Sherlock suggested. "About what?" "We're having a Christmas party tomorrow." "I can't blog about that!"

"Well, I was giving you a suggestion. If you don't like it then don't come to me for advice." "I didn't." "Well, you were complaining to me, so I assumed." John looked at Sherlock, not annoyed, but with a goofy smile. "What?" Sherlock was not getting it. "Nothing. It's just there's nothing to do," "Yes, you've explained that to me." John isn't going to get frustrated because he knows that Sherlock has troubles in this area.

"Sherlock?" "Yes, John?" Sherlock didn't look away from the screen this time. He was transfixed by the crap on the TV. John was almost disappointed in Sherlock for being able to get caught up in the TV. "Do you ever wonder, why when sometimes, when you've known someone for so long, but when you look at them, like really look, you start to notice how ignorant and rude they are." John paused to try and figure out how to word the next part. Sherlock paused the TV and looked over at John, he moved in the chair to face John. He was smiling a goofy smile at how thoughtful John was. John looked at Sherlock with a confused face, and then continued. "But then, you look at other old friends, and you realize how brilliant and, and…"

John couldn't find a good word. He wanted the most significant word. To show Sherlock how much he cared. Then, it hit him. He cleared his throat and continued. "And they just are _luminous_. And you can't figure out why you never saw their brilliance and luminance before, how you could have missed it. And it hurts because you know you don't have much longer to tell them because you never know what might happen?"

Sherlock just looked at John, his smile faded long ago. He wasn't too sure what he meant, but he tried to figure it out. "I guess." Sherlock said, growing another smile-he got it. "What?" asked John. "Nothing. You're cue- your just, John. That's all." nice save. John knew what he meant though, and he sat there for a moment, unable to comprehend what Sherlock just said.

"I think I'll go to my room, then. See you in a bit." Sherlock thought John was going up there to Master the Skill of Pottery, but instead he was going upstairs, to his room, to write stuff down. His thoughts, mostly. His thoughts included his feelings, things other people did or said, etc.

I guess you could call it his diary-but he doesn't, so I don't.

John wrote down his thoughts about Sherlock's moment of _I-was-just-about-to-call-you-cute-but-I-saved-it-more-or-less_. It went along the lines of : "Asdfghijkldshd;ashd;oh;asohdojbc;ioub;ekbebhk! God I love him…" This was what filled the past ten pages: "I love Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I do. I hate it, but I do. Why me? Why him? I'm so confused." and the most recent: "Kissing Sherlock Holmes. I kissed Sherlock Holmes. It felt like Wow-I-am-sucking-face-with-Sherlock-fugging-Holmes-holy-mother-of-potatoes-wow. Well, at least that's what I was thinking, and numerous other scenarios that are both irrelevant to this entry and completely relevant-basically, I know someday Sherlock will find this and read everything, but I don't hold too much back."

That one's my personal favourite!

John wasn't too happy though. He was more mad than anything. He really wanted Sherlock to realize how he felt. Everything he was trying to do. It was very stressful, because it's true, John predicted right-they didn't have very long. But what they did have, was their own personal infinity, and may not be the biggest infinity, but at least they had one.

* * *

Sherlock's pale face in the dark could still be seen, but it wasn't wanted. The tears of ignorance streaming down his face. There was a slight buzzing sound, then black. Then the night's sky, then buzzing, then black. Then a light, and a cold chair, but only where he wasn't placed, and a table with paperwork and some syringes.

Sherlock was handcuffed by his legs and arms. "Don't struggle, they'll only get tighter." said a semi-familiar voice, his vision was blurred, and speech slurred. "Where am I?" Sherlock managed to get out. It wasn't long until he heard a loud thump and yelp. Another thump and yelp. "Only two." Sherlock thought after a while of silence. "How pitiful." He heard silence, and footsteps. They were the footsteps of someone struggling to stand up. Trip, step, step, step, trip. He noticed a pattern that then changed to step, step, step, trip, trip, trip, step, step, step, then silence.

"Hello?" Sherlock said loudly. "I can't find the lights." said a different familiar voice, but he knew who's voice this was and he smiled. "John, they're about, jump up and down a couple times."

"What?!" "Do it!" he did so. "The lights are ten heel to toe steps to your right, if you hit the wall, you've gone too far. They should be about-how tall are you?" "Five, or so." "They'll be eye level." John gave a fourth of a smile. "Wait, you know how tall I am!" John remarked before he turned the lights on. "I know." Sherlock smiled.

The lights came up, they were in an interrogation room-as if that wasn't obvious. "Let's get you out of here." John said, rushing to undo the handcuffs. It took ages because John kept fumbling with the pick. Once they were outside and headed home, Sherlock kept trying to ask what had happened, but John wouldn't say anything. "It's not important." John said. "Just, business, that's all. They have the wrong people." "Fine." Sherlock muttered and they eventually got home and out of the bitter winds of London nights.

John had a massive headache so he took some sleeping medication and fell asleep on Sherlock's bed. When Sherlock decided that maybe he should take some and sleep, he did and then went to John's room because he didn't get the hint.

Sherlock first went to check on John, who was in deep sleep. Then he went upstairs and sat on his bed. "Not the same." Sherlock thought as he sat on the edge. He paid close attention to John's room because he'd never actually been in it. Well, he had once before, but that was before it was John's room.

It was dull, but Sherlock saw everything come to life when he looked somewhere, so nothing was ever really _dull_. He saw John's right-handedness, his loneliness, and then his desk. His desk was full of papers and notebooks, and books. There was a red notebook with a string tied around it sitting in between the wall and the desk.

Sherlock jumped up with curiosity and excitement. He walked over to it and slid it out. The notebook was well worn, and leathery, but it wasn't exactly leather, probably a mixture of some sort. There was a bookmark and it opened to a page written exactly a year after Sherlock "died." Sherlock gulped and his lip started to tremor. He couldn't decide if he should read it. He did.

And here's what it said:

" 10:45 Everything seems to fade away like him. It all becomes dull, like his memory. His eyes fade the longer I go without looking into them, or getting lost in the beautiful captured galaxies. Though, our memories-the things we did and said, they stay alive.

12:26 I can't see him, I can't remember. I can't. It hurts to remember, but the fact that I can't hurts more.

4:43 I feel like I've disappointed him.

7:08 I knew it would all end, just not like this. I need him back. I know he's out there, somewhere. Waiting in the cold. But he should be here because I make good hot chocolate and he could take my blankets. I could be there to help him.

Please Sherlock Holmes, please come home."

Sherlock read slowly, and with each word he felt more regret, more pain. He hadn't realized really how much it affected him. He was crying, his face was wet "I'm drowning my galaxies." he thought. This made an impact because his first entry, was that one. Sherlock's death hurt him so much, that he got a diary, to put all of his feelings in. He slid the bookmark back in and went to a different one. This one was newer, very new.

And it looked like this:

"He is so beautiful. I hate that. It makes me want hi even more. I don't want him at all, but I do so very much. It's all a big mess in my head. He doesn't understand my hints, he hasn't said anything about me, he just is the same. I suppose that that is a very good thing, but I'd expect him to be more, I don't know. Intimate? Since the kiss. I shouldn't hold out too much hope, though. He is Sherlock Holmes. The beautiful, brilliant, luminous Sherlock Holmes. My Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock crumbled to the ground, and sat. He read every page since the beginning. He cried a lot more than he expected. Then he fell asleep stuck on this page, the page he cried most about:

"I die more every day. Slowly I will deteriorate until I will end up being nothing but another one of Sherlock's stupid skulls. I will sit and collect dust until Mrs. Hudson cleans it. She will hide Sherlock's fugging cigarettes in me. I'll be nothing more than a skull., and Sherlock Holmes will feel I am nothing more than a friend. That's how everything will end. The whole world will fall apart, crumbling and burning. But Sherlock Holmes will stand, tall and proud not giving a fug about anything or anyone but himself and his stupid fugging ego.

But I still love that fugging bastard. And if he shall rot in Tyburn, may I rot with him. May we be skulls together, sitting on the dusty mantel of some brilliant lunatic. May we burn together."

* * *

Sherlock woke up on the floor crying still. He was sweaty, but not in physical pain. Mental pain on the other hand… He jumped up, tired but very awake. He had a plan. He was going to tell John how sorry he was, and hold him close and tell him everything he feels. He raced to the door, stumbling, but then he stopped. He didn't want to just do something, like that because what If his feelings had passed?

Sherlock didn't quite understand everything John wrote so he threw the book he was holding on the ground and went downstairs. He was surprised to find John wearing suit and tie, and talking to Mycroft. Mycroft and John stood. No one smiled or said anything. They just stood there.

"John has told me about last night." said Mycroft with a concerned look on his face. John sat on the couch next to Sherlock, and Mycroft on the table. "What about last night?" Sherlock was worried. "You, reading my journal, and crying in your sleep." John muttered-and yes, I do realize I use "muttered" a lot. Sherlock looked at his feet, not saying anything. "May I speak with him alone?" "Sure, I'll make tea." "no thank you." Mycroft said. John really can't make tea.

"Sherlock. That was very much inappropriate of you! This is not something you should be doing. Especially not after what you've already done!" They whisper-yelled clever lines of sarcasm and anger the whole time. John just floated around the kitchen because he couldn't just go back there. It had to look like he wasn't spying on them.

He walked back with nothing. "Sherlock." Mycroft said, giving him a look. "John. I am sorry. For invading your privacy. Mycroft, may I speak to him alone?" "Of course, I'll go talk to Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft scurried downstairs. John was sitting criss-cross on the couch facing Sherlock-as was Sherlock to John. "John. I read everything." "I noticed."

"Right, well… I love you. I've said it before, John Watson, but I do so very much love you. I want you to know that anything bad you have ever said about me-I deserve it. I really do. I hurt you so much, and I now, now I realize this. I am so very sorry John." Sherlock grabbed John's hands and pulled then towards him with not such great force. John leaned forward a bit.

"Sherlock?" no reply. Sherlock didn't move from there. He just stared at John. "Do you really get lost in my eyes?" no reply from John. "Don't worry, John, I got that." Sherlock winked and John smiled a bit. They leaned in and started to kiss. Mycroft was in the kitchen watching it happen, he decided it would be best to interrupt it instead of just waiting for it to be done.

Mycroft silently walked across the kitchen to the door and knocked. He cleared his throat. "I'll be leaving now." He walked away. John looked at Sherlock. "What?" John smiled with the right side of his mouth, then he let go of Sherlock's hands and leaned back. He was very nervous and not himself around Sherlock whenever they did that, and this was most definitely no exception.

"John? What's wrong?" John stood up. "I should probably go clean up the mess." "I'll help." "No, It's fine." "But I made it-" It's fine, Sherlock." John went upstairs and Sherlock laid back, thinking about what had just happened. "His damn feelings! Changing all the damn time…" Sherlock thought.

John went up to his room, not to clean-it was too late for that-but to look at the pages, see what pages he looked at most. A page was ripped out of the book. John remembered what was on it:

"Sherlock's eyes remind me of stars.

Sherlock's cheekbones are beautiful.

Sherlock's body-I don't know if I should say- is amazing, and he is so sexy sometimes-to be honest.

Sherlock is brilliant and amazing and smart and he shines brighter than any light source. I am the conductor of his light, I've so recently discovered.

Sherlock saved me from loneliness when no one else was there for you.

I love Sherlock Holmes for all of these reasons, John Watson. Like Molly said "Don't let his heart stop yours." remember that."

"I never thought I'd admit to those things" John thought. He smiled at the thought of Sherlock taking that page for himself-John had no idea why Sherlock could possibly want that page, I mean, yeah, but still. No one could really say what he was going to do with it because no one could possibly know exactly what he was _actually _thinking. Unless, of course, he told you what he was thinking. But then again, he is, after all, Sherlock Holmes. He's not exactly a share-feelings-with-just-anyone-who-will-listen-guy, so much as a shut-up-I-am-tyring-to-think-and-by-the-way-that-question-is-irrelevant-threfore-I-wil-not-be-answering-it-because-there-are-more-important-things-at-hand-guy.

He flipped through the pages, as Sherlock would have-finding things that look interesting until he's read everything. Some-which means "most"-of the pages had grammatical corrections in them in red and blue pen. That was all he seemed to do-excluding the tearing of that one page. "That's Sherlock." John giggled and sat down on the ground. He was trying to be Sherlock Holmes. Trying to imagine himself being Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to get in his mind set at the time, but John wasn't sure he could, because Sherlock wasn't the same. He was a different Sherlock. He was more human, yes. And that's good. But he loved the other Sherlock, the guy who only likes work and never shares his feelings and never apologizes unless told. The one who would never say "I love you" like that-slightly often. Not this one.

* * *

"I just never thought them. I mean, Sherlock's always been a bit camp, but I always thought he just liked himself. I would never think them." Lestrade said some of that, but he thought all of it. Anderson rolled his eyes. "I am not discussing this. The last thing I need is to know all about his pri-" that was all anyone could make out because as he left his voice faded.

"Why are we discussing this? It _is_ none of our business." "Because we barely know him, and every bit of his life we discover helps us understand him more-that's what we need. And it's hard not to talk about Sherlock making out with John." They laughed a bit. "What were they up to when you walked in?" "Um, they were talking about you, I guess." Donovan lied.

Anderson walked in with the phone. "it's for you." He handed the phone to her, and she left. "Really though. Why do you care about them?" Anderson wasn't buying the other excuse. Greg looked at his shoes and decided upon why he actually cared. "I care because I've known Sherlock for a long while. I know what he's capable of doing to a person. And how he isn't aware of it. I'm worried about John. He doesn't deserve to be hurt, that's all. And by reminding me of this, then I can keep telling myself to do something, to save him before it's too late."

"Well you shouldn't care. What happens to them, what they do, it's none of our business. People get hurt, and always will, so there is no point in trying to save someone, trying to stop it. Because misery is inevitable in the end."

This was partly true. Misery is inevitable, but there is a point in trying to stop it-I am not sure what that point is, but I know that Lastrade, and Sherlock, and John sure knew.

221B- same time-6:30 pm- John fell asleep, and Sherlock is playing his violin. He danced around playing a piece John enjoyed very much. "I don't understand!" Sherlock growled as he stood at the music stand. John awoke to the sound of a breaking violin. John jumped out of bed very confuzzled. He was wearing nothing put a vertically stripped button up, his red pants, and some black socks.

He rushed downstairs. "What the hell, Sherlock?" John noticed Sherlock sitting on the ground picking through, and pushing around, the broken pieces of his violin. He didn't say anything because he wasn't sure what the appropriate way to react was, so he just stood there in his red pants and a wrongly buttoned shirt. "Nothing, my violin is just, stupid and broken." "Oh." John spoke soft. Sherlock-hard and frustrated. Each word ended with a snap, and anger. Sherlock ranted away for what seemed like ages. He didn't realize that John wasn't listening.

"After about ten minutes, Sherlock looked up at John, he wanted to see something he loved, something he wanted to see. But he continued on ranting. "…and though I tried to it just stopped and, John, you're wearing red pants." "Yes." John looked down at them and did that fish face thing he does, then he looked back at Sherlock. Sherlock took a deep breath, then continued.

John turned around and started to kind-of walk to the stairs. Sherlock stopped. "Where are you going?" "bed." It's only -" "bed. Sorry, Sherlock. Sorry if you don't like it. Some people need sleep sometimes." he was very irritable-if you didn't catch that. Sherlock just stood there, trying to make sense of it all.

Meanwhile, John was lying in bed, confruffled and nauseous. "Strange week, very strange week." John whispered to the air. He didn't know who he was meaning to say that to. Maybe himself. What John needed was not sleep, he needed to talk to Sherlock. See why he wasn't being Mr. Scrooge all the time anymore.

"I'm busy, John. Maybe later." "Sherlock, we. Sherlock, we need to talk about this!" "No, _you_ do." "Yeah, I need to talk about you." "Why?" "because you aren't being you, and it's scaring me." "How so?" "You've been putting yourself down and saying sw-nice things to me that I obviously do not deserve-"

"Who said you didn't deserve it? It wasn't me. Or anyone else. So it must have been you. So look at yourself. The former army doctor still in his red pants with the buttons on his shirt buttoned all wrong. Putting himself down. Saying "I don't deserve compliments from someone who completely shattered my heart and then burned them, as I described it in my diary, that he then read and now he thinks I hate him but really, on the inside, the parts I don't see, he just wants me to say he's forgiven.

"He just wants me to tell him that he deserves compliments and to be held and loved and just to have someone to call his own for once. He thinks that I am perfect and feels so shy and doesn't want to express any type of feeling in fear of heartbreak, and he's never had that fear before, no. But when there is a possibility that the most magnificent human ever may be in love with you as much as you are with him, then you get scared, no matter who you are."

"So, if you really needed all of that, that's what I think about. Wondering if you hate me, or if you like me or love me. Wondering if the skies will burn and you'll be nothing but a skull in my mind. But you won't John Watson. You have been more than a friend. You are my, and always have been, my other half. The human part of me. The one that knows no boundaries. The one who's bravery is not stupidity, but actual bravery.

"The bravery of a soldier in his magnificent red pants who would cry at the thought of losing me. That is what I think about. There is of course much, much more. But most of all John Watson, I think about how much I love you. The times I ran away from where I stayed, but was then captured again. John Watson, I would have come back sooner, but people needed time to forget me. Forget my apparent greatness and failure.

"But really, what they're forgetting, is the story about the machine-man who saved his love and friends from death by faking his own. By Leaving this world forever hated. So, Dr. John Hamish Watson. I ask you this:" and he stopped. John was looking at him. No tears, but full comprehension. John was speechless. Sherlock was staring behind John, like he was lost in another world.

John wanted to ask what he saw, but instead he just stood there, in his magnificent red pants, confused. John looked at his pants, then at Sherlock, who made a quiet motion with his hands. "I think I should put on trousers." "Go ahead, and also, SSSSSSHHH!" "What is it?" "Go get ready" "fine!"

John fumbled upstairs and Sherlock rushed downstairs to the door. He was relaxed and calm. He knew what was going on. He opened the door-nothing. He went back upstairs after opening a closing the door a couple more times. It was Mycroft and his stupid surveillance. That's really why he was over here. Don't ask me how he figured it out-I am clueless, and I'm the one writing the story.

* * *

**Part six and seven and eight and however many more I make will be posted soon!**


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